


Blood Dripped Nothingness Turns to White

by Inactive Account (sassybleu)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was furious. Not, <em>there's fingers in my socks </em> mad, but, <em>it's <strong>your</strong> head that's going in the fridge</em> mad. Sherlock sat in his chair staring up at John, who towered over Sherlock for once while he was yelling. Sherlock had worked a case by himself, allowing himself to be caught and tortured for weeks. John had been worried sick the whole time, while Sherlock gained information critical to the case, at the same time receiving whip after whip from a riding crop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Dripped Nothingness Turns to White

**Author's Note:**

> Goal: 2,000 words
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except my words.
> 
> Notes: So this is what happens when liebling tells me to get off my butt and write something.
> 
> *Any errors will be fixed when I have access to a computer, minimal as they are.

John was furious. Not, _there’s fingers in my socks_ mad, but, _it’s **your** head that’s going in the fridge _ mad. Sherlock sat in his chair staring up at John, who towered over Sherlock for once while he was yelling. Sherlock had worked a case by himself, allowing himself to be caught and tortured for weeks. John had been worried sick the whole time, while Sherlock gained information critical to the case, at the same time receiving whip after whip from a riding crop.

After Sherlock had received enough information, he let John and Lestrade know where he was. Lestrade had been worried sick; John had been homicidal. It was enough that Sherlock put himself in harm’s way on a daily basis, but he had absolutely had enough when Sherlock disappeared. After getting him home and tending to his wounds, kissing each one after he bandaged it, as if that would heal them any faster, he sighed and stood up, anger bubbling up and boiling in his veins, spilling over as soon as he spoke his first words.

Sherlock simply sat there looking up at John. He’d done what’s necessary for the case but somehow he still felt guilty about what he did to John. He knew that if John had ever done the same to him, had their roles been reversed, he would have locked John up and thrown away the key, never to be seen by the outside world again. So, feeling guilty, he sat with his legs up and his arms wrapped around, staring up at John wide-eyed, waiting for the verbal assault to cease and for his guilt to recede back to the basement of his mind palace.

“God, how could you? I was worried sick! Do you even fucking care? Of course not, you’re _Sherlock Holmes_ the bloody psychopath! You don’t care about anyone! _Alone protects you._ How did you ever fool me that you cared? Oh, right, you’re bloody _Sherlock Holmes._ God, why the hell am I still here?” The last sentence more directed at himself, he plopped down into his chair, bring his hands up to his face, slouched over so that his elbows met his knees.

“Sherlock…You can’t do that to me. You can’t. I..Sherlock…”

               “I apologize, John. I did not realize how greatly my absence would affect you. I will try to keep that in mind for future reference.”

John looked up at him, and stood, holding out his hand. Sherlock looked up at him again and took it, unfolding his legs and standing up, allowing himself to be led to the couch. John sat down against the arm, one leg splayed along the back edge of the couch cushions, while the other rest on the floor. Sherlock maneuvered himself into the V John had created, and lay on his side facing the back cushion. John brought his other leg up to tangle with Sherlock’s, and wrapped his arms around the detective. They sit in silence and listen to the patter of rain droplets hitting the roof; the steady drips lulling them both to sleep.

The night that followed were restless for Sherlock. John lay in bed, drifting through peaceful dreams while Sherlock stared at the ceiling. John’s voice still echoed through his mind, _Sherlock Holmes, the bloody psychopath! How did you ever fool me that you cared? …why the hell am I still here?_   Sherlock’s head swirled around and around, the words sharp like razors, cutting away at the threads that held his feelings. Each slice weakening their hold, and drawing blood. Every drop of blood burned as it dropped, insecurities growing as if watered by the red drops; rising from the basement he’s buried them in. Each one glowing and shining so brightly that it blinds him, the screams make him deaf, and his body loses all sense of being. He can’t feel his skin anymore, the only connection he can still feel is his lungs, gasping for breath, and his heart thumping erratically. His mind palace is blown away in the hurricane and he’s locked in a cell. Words turning to ropes, wrapping around his neck. Each time they are screamed the rope wraps a little tighter. His pale hands grasp at the rope, trying to pry his finger in along with his neck, gasping desperately as they tighten ever more with each breath and failed attempt. The pristine white walls dripped blood, filling the room with the thick, red, metallic tasting liquid; the warmth slowing down his body, lulling his mind to drowsiness. The screaming stops, the blood drains, and the rope cuts, leaving him gulping in air like a fish out of water. He’s trapped in the white room, and John is standing in front of him.

John has a sad look on his face, and his hands are tucked into his pockets. John tilts his head, and begins to speak, the words not yelled like before, but crippling all the same.

“I’m leaving. You know that? I can’t do this anymore. I knew you wouldn’t change. But you made it seem like _I_ mattered, ya know? You made me think that I could be special enough for you; and that you would wait for me. That if you _had_ to slow down, _I’d_ be the only one you’d ever do it for. Guess you were wrong. You can’t wait for me, Sherlock. **You’ve got to be alone.** That’s all you can be. I can’t keep up with you anymore. I’ve been running for too long, and you’ve not so much as paused to let me catch up. I’m tired. This won’t work. I’m sorry; I really am. But you know, maybe this is a sign. Maybe I’m supposed to meet someone else. A woman that will want children, and an old house. Maybe you were just supposed to be another failed relationship of mine.”

Sherlock’s eyes flooded freely, as he sunk to his knees and sobbed, _begging,_ John not to leave. Promising that he could be better. Saying anything he thought John would want to hear; anything to just _make him stay_.

John disappeared, but the silence stayed. Surrounded by blank, white, nothingness, and stuck in silence, words that tried to slip past his tongue died at his lips. The white was blinding, and he closed his eyes. Each breath he drew was released with a sob. Black curls hung down on his forehead as he reached up with both hands, and tugged. Ripping and clawing at his hair, wishing he could scream at the pain. Letting go, he panted in relief, just before he pushed up his sleeves, and clawed at the skin of his arms; nails shredding the flesh, blood dripping to the floor, a harsh contrast against the never-ending _nothingness_ that surrounded him. He dug his fingertips into the wounds, blood coating his fingers, as he brought them up close to his face to examine them…

Sherlock woke with a start, gasping for breath as his lungs failed to take in as much as he needed. John was straddling him, hands on his shoulders, and his eyes were filled with concern. Sherlock felt a sting and looked down at his arms, seeing the streaks of blood trailing down his arms to drip onto the cream bed sheet. John was talking.

“…what’s going on? Sherlock. Sherlock, look at me. Can you hear me?”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open as he brought his eyes back to John’s, feeling tears brim in his eyes as he did so. As he blinked he felt the tears making their appearance, and kept his eyes closed; too humiliated to look John in the eyes again.

“You’ve been chanting ‘Psychopath’ and ‘Stay’ in your sleep. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

               “John, don’t leave. You can’t leave. I’ll be better, I swear I will. I won’t be a psychopath, I’ll care more. John, just, _please_ John… _please._ ”

John looked shocked at Sherlock’s words. He opened his mouth several times, trying to find the right words to say, but coming up blank when it came to how utterly _sorry_ he was. John gathered Sherlock up in his arms and held the shaking man. He would never be able to find the words to tell Sherlock his feelings, but he only hoped that he could show Sherlock how loved he was. He regretted every awful word he’d ever said to the detective that was sobbing and shaking in his arms, face buried into his shoulder.

Sherlock’s sobs grew quieter and quieter over time, until he was silent except for his ragged breathing against the soaked cotton of John’s sleep shirt.

               “John, please don’t go.” Sherlock whispered after he pulled back an inch from John’s shoulder; still avoiding eye contact with the man holding him.

“I’m not going anywhere. God, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…Sherlock I love you. I don’t want to leave. I can’t believe I said those things. Such awful things…Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

John sounded broken and pained; Sherlock pulled back to look at his face, and saw sadness there.

John’s breath caught when he saw Sherlock’s face; eyes red from the tears, and his face paler than usual. As they sat there studying each other’s face, they both sighed, and Sherlock closed his eyes, resting his forehead against John’s chest, his hair tickling John’s chin. John sighed in relief as he felt Sherlock relax into his arms, and placed his lips on Sherlock’s crown, holding them there for a minutes before turning his head and laying his cheek on the sweat-damp curls that rested there.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shifted at the words, and John felt Sherlock’s lips brush his chest, and heard a low mumble that sounded vaguely like, “I love you.”

Sherlock pulled back and looked into John’s eyes, and after seeing the small smile playing at his lips, leaned forward to brush his lips against John’s. Not moving, they both held their lips together, dry and soft, the simple act conveying what their words cannot. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock, his hand resting between Sherlock’s shoulder blades while the other, wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, pulled him closer.

Sherlock rest a hand on John’s neck while his other hand rested on John’s chest, feeling the firm pectoral muscle beneath the fabric of his tshirt. After pulling back for a second, and catching their breaths, they dove in again, John’s tongue traced the line of Sherlock’s but soon moved as the detective opened his mouth and beckoned him in, the sweet taste of his mouth as inviting as the pleasure they both got from their tongues collision, fighting for dominance before Sherlock conceded and let himself be led by John.

They quickly divested themselves of their clothing and were lying naked on the bed, John’s body covering Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s legs were spread and John was settled between them, grinding his hips down as Sherlock tried to thrust up ineffectively.

Reaching over to the bedside table, John grabbed the small bottle of lube, and flicked the cap with his thumbnail, hissing as the plastic broke and cut him. Dropping the bottle on the bed, John stuck his thumb in his mouth, trying to stop the small cut from bleeding. Sherlock brought his hand up and pried the digit from John’s mouth, taking it into his own and swirling his tongue around the pad; his tongue trailing up and down the line of the cut. John moaned and pulled his finger out, reaching blindly for the bottle of lube on the bed.

After a moment of searching, his hand brushed the bottle and he grabbed it in triumph, pouring a generous amount onto his palm, rubbing it until the cool liquid warmed up.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s hips as John teased his entrance, pushing a finger in as his other hand grabbed Sherlock’s erection, pumping slowly while rubbing the precome down his shaft. Gradually working Sherlock further and further he kept adding fingers until he got to three, Sherlock looking up at him through clouded eyes and his mouth begging for John to just _get on with it and fuck me already._

Lining up, John slowly pushed his way into Sherlock, pausing every so often to let Sherlock adjust to the intrusion. John slowly pulled out and pushed back in, smiling at the soft gasp he heard from Sherlock’s pleasure slackened mouth. John thrust a few more times, angling his hips differently each time until he heard Sherlock gasp even louder as he hit the man’s prostate.

Remembering the angle, John start to thrust faster, pumping his member in and out of Sherlock, one hand supporting his weight while the other ran up and down Sherlock’s sides. As he bent down to kiss Sherlock wetly, his hand snaked downward, and began pumping Sherlock’s member with vigor, encouraging the man to chase his orgasm.

As Sherlock came, John stared down at the man he loved before dropping his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder, letting his own orgasm wash through him. No longer able to hold himself up, collapsing as gently as he could onto the rapidly cooling piles of white glob. Unable to care, John rolled over next to Sherlock on his back, pulling the near-dozing man onto his chest.

Laying a kiss on the taller man’s head, John repeated,

“I love you, Sherlock.”

               “Mmm..Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> 4/13/15: Please do not duplicate or post this content elsewhere without consent.


End file.
